


dancing around the lies we tell

by postalcoast



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Kinda, Love Letters, M/M, Mirror Sex, except john and arthur are allowed to say they love each other, look im just saying what rockstar was too afraid to say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postalcoast/pseuds/postalcoast
Summary: Arthur's never been good with words or putting names to the feelings he possesses, but when it comes to John, and if he only had one word to choose, he'd pick love. Because love is funny and complicated in many ways, yet strong and unyielding in others.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston/Arthur Morgan, John Marston/Arthur Morgan, to some extent??
Comments: 22
Kudos: 57





	1. Colter

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically a love letter written to the relationship Arthur & John could've had.
> 
> title comes from the lyrics of Team by Lorde, bc it gives off big morston vibes tbh

Things had grown tense between Arthur and John, to say the very least. 

Arthur tried to not let it bother him, really, he did - but he was a stubborn man, always had been. He and John were pretty evenly matched when it came to who was the most obstinate. 

However, his morals, and his beliefs, and his loyalty were something Arthur held very close to his heart. His loyalty to Dutch, to the gang, and everyone in it who he regarded as family. His belief that family and the bond you held with your family was important and something to be regarded as damn near sacred. His morality that claimed a man was damn near nothing if he was loyal to nothing but himself. 

And it was these three things that Arthur believed, from the moment John set foot back into camp after running off for a whole year, set him apart from John Marston. 

Arthur didn’t hate him, because Dutch welcomed John back with open arms and as long as he did that, it meant John was a part of the gang again. Maybe he always was a part of the gang, even when he was off doing God knows what during that year, and that’s why Arthur couldn’t hate him. 

As badly as he wanted to, as badly as he wanted to throw John to the ground and choke the life out of him for making them all worry so _much_ and for so _long_ , he couldn’t. 

And maybe it’s that little bit of an advantage that John possesses over Arthur like the lucky bastard he is that only adds to the fire Arthur has in his heart. A fire reserved specifically for one John Marston. 

John had left as a man Arthur had known nearly his whole life, a man he watched grow up and grew up along with. A man he knew as well as the back of his hand, a man he loved more than words could say. A man he would gladly die for without a second thought. 

In the time that John had been gone, Arthur missed him. He worried about him, and when time was too hard of a truth to bear, Arthur had mourned him. 

Arthur watched the rest of the people in camp worry just as he did. 

Arthur watched as Hosea sent the gang’s fittest men, including himself, out scouting and looking for any sign of John. He watched the disappointed look on everyone’s faces when they came back without him, looks that grew more and more hopeless with each time. 

Arthur watched as Abigail cried over John, at first showing signs of just mere frustration in his absence, blaming John’s stupidity on getting himself lost. Then, as the hope had slowly drained from everyone in the illusion that John was just simply lost, raw and heartbreaking sorrow overtook Abigail’s frustration. 

Hiding her tears on Jack’s behalf, who was too little and too young to understand, and some times were more effective and convincing than others. 

Arthur felt her pain, he felt it so deep and achingly in his chest that he was sure it would gnaw a hole right through him. The heartbreak felt like a black hole had replaced his heart, it felt like starving. 

The man he loved, thought so much of, and shared so many memories with and could barely remember a life without - was _gone,_ like he never existed. 

The composure everyone held up around camp after months had passed only added to the illusion. It was there, hanging over them like a raincloud, but you had to _look_ to really see it. Arthur _felt_ it, almost every waking moment. 

And when John rode back into camp, one year later, with a sheepish look on his face and about as thin and haggard as Arthur had ever seen him - it was like a smack in the face. One that said all that worrying, all that crying, all that searching - had been for _nothing_. 

John was perfectly fine. A bit starved and a bit humiliated, but he was _fine_. 

He hadn’t been mauled by a bear, much in the same way Arthur sometimes seen in his dreams at night, waking him with a racing pulse and a cold sweat. He hadn’t been shot down by bounty hunters, something Arthur sometimes overheard Abigail make as a conclusion to his disappearance. 

Absolutely nothing had caused John’s disappearance but his own selfishness and lack of regard for anyone at that camp but himself. Including Arthur, including Abigail, including Jack, and including Dutch and Hosea. 

Arthur’s heart broke again when he saw John ride into camp, and it broke yet again when Dutch forgave him almost instantly. Like a shattered mirror taking its final blow. 

Everyone had gathered around John, shouting praises and cries of relief, and Arthur noticed the way John’s eyes scanned amongst the crowd of people, and then across the camp, seeking him out in particular. 

John found him eventually, far back and set apart from the rest, and John smiled at him when his gaze met Arthur’s. He _smiled._

It would’ve been kinder for John to hop down off his horse, walk up to Arthur, grab the pistol off his hip, and shoot him with it. Shoot him right in the chest with his own gun. 

Arthur’s heart broke again, for a final time, when John’s smile faltered and his attention diverted back to the people surrounding him. The frame of the mirror falling off the wall and to the ground along with its shattered pieces. 

It had taken a lot to get Arthur to even speak to John again, and of course, John acted like he didn’t understand. Like he had no clue as to why Arthur wouldn’t just give in as everyone else had. 

He couldn’t say it, he couldn’t tell John that he’d broken his heart with how selfish he was being, so he didn’t say anything. 

Time had passed, and while the wound wasn’t nearly as big, it was still something that bothered Arthur. Something he couldn’t just easily forget. 

Arthur had a memory that didn’t possess the habit of forgetting many things. He’d always been good with names, faces, anything that seemed important, and even things that didn’t. This would be one of those things, and Arthur didn’t doubt for a single second it would be something he’d remember until the day he died. 

Even after Blackwater, even after traveling up to Ambarino and through the snow, it was still something Arthur remembered. 

He and John were on speaking terms by now, of course, but their relationship had reached a level of coldness that it’d never seen before. As cold as the pure white snow surrounding them for miles and miles ahead. 

Every time he saw John, every time he heard John’s name, and every time he thought of John, the fact that he’d ran off and abandoned them for a year presented itself like a thorn in Arthur’s mind. 

And that’s where he was now, still bitter and still stubborn over something that had happened years ago. 

***

It’s damn cold in Colter. 

A mess of abandoned cabins and shacks drowning in a blinding white blanket of snow. Every morning, the snow looks untouched, all the muddy slush left behind by heavy foot traffic has been covered up, and the snow looks pure again. 

And a cold that’s beyond freezing, one that makes Arthur wish for the heat of Hell to grace him just a bit sooner than he’d ever intended before. While he took all that afterlife talk that the Reverend spouted out with the tiniest grain of salt, Arthur believed that if there was an afterlife, the fiery depths was where men like him went. 

Men who killed without real reason, men who stole and took what didn’t belong to them.

Still, Arthur wades through the snow and into the cabin where it seems everyone else is occupying, and Arthur knows Abigail’s intentions before she even speaks a word to him. 

“He’s strong and he’s smart,”

“Strong at least,”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who they’re talking about. 

And it doesn’t take a genius to predict that Abigail would choose Arthur to take up the role of going out in this snowstorm to look for John. Because she knows as well as he knows himself, Arthur will. 

He led every single search they went on for John when he disappeared the first time, because he cared about John. And he still does, and while he might still resent the man for his actions, Abigail knows what John means to Arthur. 

He doesn’t let it show, especially not now. He even throws a few insults out at John’s behalf, puts on an air of pretending everything’s fine, because Arthur’s stubborn and he’s angry. 

Angry at himself for holding this damn grudge so long, and angry at John for disappearing again. 

The truth is that Arthur doesn’t need Abigail’s request, nor Hosea’s final word, to send him off in search of John. The truth is that Arthur would’ve done it anyway, but because he has a little bit of pride still left in him, he lets himself believe that he’s just about as disagreeable to the hunt as he acts. 

Arthur doesn’t put up a fight when Hosea sends him off, and he doesn’t disagree when Javier says that John would look for him if the tables were turned. Because, as much as John stepped on any idea of loyalty that Arthur once thought he possessed when he ran away, Arthur knows Javier’s telling the truth. 

So, Arthur goes back out into the storm, grumbling all the while, pretending that his own logic prevails over his own emotions. 

Javier has always deemed love as one of the most important motivations. He’s mentioned on more than one occasion that it’s because of the love Dutch provides the gang with, that it makes him feel safe and hopeful for the next turn of events. Javier is blindly loyal to those he loves and those who love him, no matter the consequences. 

And while without consideration and while trying to maintain a certain appearance, Arthur might deem one a fool for being so unconditionally faithful based on simple emotions. Yet, Arthur doesn’t have a way with words as Javier does, and he isn’t sure how to perfectly describe his dedication to Dutch and the rest of the gang, but if he had to choose one word to describe it - he’d pick love. 

He loves Dutch, just as he loves the rest of the gang, and most of all, he loves John.

While the word has been pushed down far enough, buried underneath feelings of betrayal and a neverending grievance, the feeling still remains there. A burning ember that refuses to go out.

In regards to John, maybe Arthur’s just as bound by the love he feels, and in that way, he and Javier are similar. Yet, love is most certainly blind, and love most certainly creates foolish decisions. Blindness and consequences that Arthur would greatly possess with John’s concern.

They find John’s horse, mauled and frozen, with John’s personalized saddle - the monogrammed “J.M.” still in place. The one Arthur bought for him for his birthday so many years ago, way before he disappeared the first time. When Arthur could still regard John without bitterness, and every feeling wasn’t self-questioned. 

For a moment, Arthur felt fear settle in him, digging its way deep into his heart and into the pit of his stomach. Like he’d just stepped on the edge of a cliff and the rocks beneath him began to give way. A fear that John was lying somewhere, upon this snowy mountain, in much the same condition as the horse he rode on. 

Then, Javier fires two shots, and John’s voice rips through the cold air, and Arthur can breathe again. 

They push forward, and this far up, probably miles away from the ground, the icy cold wind whips around them and Arthur can’t feel his feet anymore but they carry him on. They follow the sound of John’s voice until they find him out on a ledge of the mountain, and John’s nothing if not a sight for sore eyes - a mere relief that he's even still alive.

Arthur hides his relief behind the sharp tongue he’s specifically reserved for John since they got back on speaking terms, and John matches him word for word. 

Still, picking his head up and peering up at them with a face now littered with fresh cuts, Arthur is the first one John’s eyes settle on and he’s the first one John speaks to. 

“I never thought I’d say this, but it’s good to see you, Arthur Morgan.” 

Arthur would probably laugh if he had it in him to do so.

He jumps down to where John’s sitting, takes a long hard look at him - his eyes scanning over John’s new wounds and John’s eyes are searching Arthur’s face right back. 

Arthur throws John up over his shoulder and marches back on through the blizzard and the deep blanket of slippery snow, and they take him back to camp, where John is greeted just as warmly as he was the time before. Maybe it means something different this time, Arthur’s sure it does, because his gripe to Hosea about John’s need to be saved comes out with just a little less bitterness than he originally intended.

It comes out with an air of fondness, one so quick that you’d have to be looking for it to notice, and maybe it’s because Arthur knows that no matter how much a chore he might make it seem, it’s always one he’d complete. 

As expected, by everyone and even Arthur himself, the supposed chore gets brushed off with every “thank you” he receives. In that same cabin that Abigail had pleaded with Arthur to find her husband in, John rests on a cot, almost completely bandaged up. But, he’s safe now, and he’s alive, and that’s worth going out into a million snowstorms over and over again. 

With the background noise of the Reverend reading off scripture and narrowly avoiding one of Uncle’s tales of the past, Arthur finds Abigail seated in front of John in a flimsy wooden chair. She’s tired, as they all are, and the stress of watching John narrowly escape death once more has understandably left her shaken. Arthur wants to thank every lucky star John Marston has gleaming in his favor that they pulled him from that mountain alive, but that’s a gratefulness he keeps stored away in his heart. 

Arthur regards Abigail with kind words of encouragement and she thanks him, yet another time, for bringing John back. Arthur wants to tell her he did it just as much for her as he did himself. Abigail gives him a small but kind smile when he brushes it off again as if she could read his mind and knew the real words that were left unsaid.

Arthur turns to John, and the other man lifts up his head and peers up at Arthur through the bandages covering half his face. Arthur asks if he’s okay, which John responds to with one of his many classic versions of “I guess”. An endless supply, Arthur reckons, all of them tucked away safely for John to pick and use with almost any question that’s thrown his way. 

Arthur sits on the stool that’s placed by the cot at John’s head, and he feels downright awkward, his lumbering body much too big for the seat. He leans forward anyway, placing a hand over John’s - the one he’s got crossed over his chest and John lets his head drop back down but eyes continue to watch. 

John’s hand is cold underneath his, and for a long while, Arthur doesn’t say anything, just smiles - a faint but all sincere grin, and he lets the expression say the words he can’t form himself. Arthur glances over his shoulder at Abigail, who’s wearing a smile much wider than his own, before bringing his gaze back around to meet John’s.

“Get some rest,” Arthur says, accenting the words with a squeeze of his hand, and he stands, giving Abigail one last kind nod of acknowledgment, before walking back out into the snow.

Dutch says they’re heading East, and it’s only a matter of time before they’ll be packing up and heading on towards another camp.

***

It seems every moment someone is lingering at John’s bedside. An unspoken arrangement has been formed between Arthur and Abigail that this role is something they take in shifts. 

When Arthur’s out with Dutch, or out hunting for food with Charles, Abigail is seated in that same rickety chair, changing John’s bandages or wiping a cloth soaked with melted snow across his forehead and along his cheek to keep the wounds clean and his fever down. 

When Arthur’s back in camp, he lets Abigail get some much-needed rest, and it’s him who occupies the chair. He refrains from touching John’s bandages as much as he can, afraid he’ll undo Abigail’s handy work or disturb the wounds further, but Miss Grimshaw hands him a bucket of fresh snow and the same cloth and instructs Arthur to make sure John’s fever stays down. 

So he scoots the chair up closer to where John lays, leans over him, and idly presses the cold cloth to his forehead. Arthur soon gives up the charade and resorts to grabbing a handful of snow, forming it into a makeshift snowball, and presses that to John’s forehead instead. 

Sometimes, John is awake enough to have a conversation with Arthur. Sometimes, John’s awake but the time together is spent in silence, unspoken words and meaningful looks are shared instead of their usual back and forth. 

Sometimes, Arthur does all the talking, all nonsense and bouts of encouragement, like he sometimes does with his horse. Sometimes, Arthur sings, moreso a request of John’s, because he likes it when Reverend Swanson sings to him, and Arthur knows he’s much too weak on John’s behalf to turn him down. 

It’s nothing like the bible hymns Arthur has heard the Reverend sing, and it’s moreso old folk songs more fit for sharing around a campfire, but John listens and he looks relaxed enough to spur Arthur on. 

A few times, Arthur has dozed off while he’s at John’s bedside. Usually, he’ll wake up with his neck sore from where it’s been slumped against his chest. Once or twice, however, he’s woken up with his whole body slumped forward and his head resting against John’s chest with John’s hand tangled in his hair. 

One of those times it was Abigail waking him up, with a smile as warm as the fire crackling in the fireplace nearby, and insisting he get some rest. Arthur obliges, and Abigail takes his place. 

It’s hard to be mad at John while he’s like this, and it’s easy to keep his pestering and prodding words to a minimum, leaving room for the intended words to be said or not to be said. Arthur appreciates the chance to leave the mask out in the snow with everyone else, only to be picked back up again when he leaves John behind. 

Or picked up again when someone else who isn’t Abigail enters the cabin.

Reverend Swanson, who’s been trying to slip John antidotes from his own personal stash, or Dutch, who comes barreling in with loud boastings about the O’Driscolls or Leviticus Cornwall.

Abigail has her own mask, as well, one that’s ingrained into her person such in the same way Arthur’s is. One accompanied with harsh words thrown at John that Arthur doesn’t doubt turn just as sweet as his own when they’re left alone.

Abigail possesses a love very similar to Arthur’s, a love that John wouldn’t know if it didn’t come laced with the occasional bite of venom. 

Sometimes, Arthur finds himself wishing for John to receive a love that’s kind and warm always. Like the flame from a candle that doesn’t flicker or go extinguished. Perhaps that’s not the sort of love best suited for John, but perhaps it’s one that Arthur wishes he, himself could somehow deliver.

Love isn’t always kind, but it should be. 

But, like the many “should be’s” of this world, that doesn’t make it so.

Days pass within a blink of an eye, and everyone is packing up the wagon train to head off towards a place called Horseshoe Overlook. Charles and Abigail help John onto the back of one of the wagons, his bandages fresh and neatly wrapped and Arthur listens to Hosea’s tales of their new location. 

Soon, they’re off, Arthur driving one of the wagons with Hosea seated beside him. They head east towards Valentine and just like the snow that dwindles away to reveal grass and flowers, there’s the promise of a new hope with the days to yet come.


	2. Horseshoe Overlook: Part I

Horseshoe Overlook is a beautiful Spring season with colorful flowers and lush greenery after a harsh, cold winter. Sun and warmth after suffocating and endless snowstorms. While their time up in Colter wasn’t a long one, as their ties to one location usually are not, Arthur finds himself hoping this time is different. That, perhaps, they can stop and metaphorically smell the flowers growing up along the plateau of the Heartlands. 

The horseshoe, being a symbol of good luck, seems to stick well within everyone’s minds as they look upon their new location with a hopeful sort of bliss that maybe everything will be okay, after all. All smiles and all well wishes, a sort of foolish joy that perhaps Arthur can’t help but feel himself from time to time. 

It’s not too soon after they arrive and everyone is still busy unpacking or helping with camp chores that Arthur sits by John’s bedside, once again, watching as Abigail sews up John’s wounds with makeshift stitches. 

Outside of John’s tent, the atmosphere is very  _ busy _ in comparison. Voices and chatter from the other gang members, glimpses of people walking by - almost always at a brisk and hurried speed. Like a whole other world, or a whole other dimension - just waiting outside behind the pulled back flaps of the tent’s entrance.

Everything seems to be cast in shadow on the inside of John’s tent, however. Apart from John, who’s seated at the end of his cot, his face bathed in the sunlight that’s streaming in as Abigail moves the thread through the skin of his cheek in a way that seems almost practiced. 

Arthur lets himself watch, leaned forward in his chair with his elbows resting on his thighs, expression bored, and mind blank. Like he isn’t even existing in the same space as John and Abigail are at this moment. A shadow mingling together with all the others in the vacant spaces of the tent.

Abigail’s eyes are focused, yet compassionate and tender as they scan John’s face, watching her own hands at work. From this angle, Arthur can only see John’s profile, and his gaze seems to be staring straight out into the sunlight that’s streaming in from outside of the tent. 

A very raw moment that, if Arthur thought too much about, would make him feel like he was intruding in on. Yet, he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here - his help would go more warranted outside around camp, still, he spends his time here, watching as Abigail mends John up brand new again. 

It’s when Abigail finishes, standing up and leaving the tent to go check on Jack, that John finally turns around and looks at Arthur. Perhaps he forgot Arthur’s presence in the tent, or perhaps he knew Arthur was there all along. Either way, Arthur isn’t one to question the reasoning, and lets his eyes take in John’s face. 

A face such as John’s, so youthful and handsome in comparison to his own, now receiving its first few imperfections and weatherings of the life they lived. Arthur had no doubt in his mind the scars that would travel along John’s cheek, across his nose, over the corner of his mouth, and nicking his eyebrow - would all suit him perfectly in time.

Arthur lifts himself up from the chair he’s sitting in, slowly - as if John’s an animal that he’s afraid to spook, and closes the distance between the two of them until he’s standing right between where John’s legs are hanging off the edge of the cot. 

John’s gazing up at him with an expression Arthur can’t quite read, yet it’s somewhat mirroring the look Abigail held for him only moments ago. Soft but closed off. For a split second, Arthur wishes he could read John’s mind, to know what he’s thinking, but maybe it’s not within Arthur’s right to know. 

John’s always been the type to speak his mind, and if he didn’t, his expressions sure did the speaking for him. It’s strange to not know what John’s thinking, and it’s strange to think of what thoughts John might not want Arthur to know. Yet, Arthur never was really the prying sort, John just always more or less handed his input over on a silver platter. 

Without thinking, Arthur reaches out, placing a hand against John’s jaw and letting his thumb wander over the stitches on John’s cheek. Arthur traces the stitches just barely, a movement as delicate and gentle as the one Abigail placed them there with. 

If Arthur succeeded at avoiding the  _ look  _ John had in his eyes now, Arthur could convince himself this was all a simple admiration as to how nicely John’s wounds were healing. 

“Those wolves got you pretty good,” Arthur says and his voice sounds strange in the tent’s quiet atmosphere. 

John laughs, and it leaves Arthur trying to remember the last time he heard John laugh. Probably months ago, but not with him. A sound carried off from around the campfire, John laughing at some joke Lenny, or Sean, or Javier had made. 

“You can say that again,”

He slumps forward when Arthur pulls his hand away, legs still hanging over the side of his cot, and rests his forearms in his lap as they both await Abigail’s return. 

Abigail reappears with some more bandages in her hand and Jack in tow by her side and Arthur returns to his seat.

“Don’t you pick at those stitches or I’ll have to do them over,” Abigail says, the warning meant for John, but her eyes glance over at Arthur in a way that makes it obvious that he’s no exception. 

***

A few days later, Hosea asks Arthur to accompany him with hunting down this legendary grizzly up in the mountains. Never one to turn Hosea down, and always finding the little pursuits the man involves himself with almost heartachingly endearing, Arthur obliges. 

And it’s the talk he has with Hosea, about John and this grudge, and about Bessie and the fond memories Hosea recalls having with her as he and Arthur ride up the mountains to hunt that monster of a bear, that has Arthur thinking.

As they ride away from the muddy streets of Valentine and up towards Emerald Ranch, Hosea asks about Arthur’s progress with John, no doubt hoping Arthur would say he had mended things completely between them but knowing better. It sends Arthur off into a tirade about John’s disappearance and the pain it caused, a speech he’d spoken many times before, one that racked his brain more times than he could count. 

As if he needed some sort of justification for the feelings of betrayal and hurt still lingering around within him. 

But, it’s that next morning, when they’re back up on their horses again that Hosea mentions Bessie with a tinge of sadness in his voice that sticks with Arthur up until they return back to camp. 

It makes Arthur think, leaving him with his head in the clouds a bit more than what was safe when trying to hunt down a grizzly. Maybe that was Hosea’s intentions, maybe it wasn’t. You never could tell with Hosea, but weaving together words that perhaps weren’t as pretty as the ones Dutch spoke but nonetheless, ones that made you think - that was his talent. 

It makes Arthur think about waking up with his head on John’s chest back up in Ambarino and listening to the sound of his heart beating. About sitting by John’s bedside once again, watching as Abigail sewed up John’s wounds with makeshift stitches. About the look John gave him just before he’d leaned into Arthur’s touch. 

And he thinks about it until he realizes he’s thinking  _ too much  _ about it. 

Arthur and Hosea don’t return to camp with a pelt from the legendary grizzly. 

Arthur chooses to hang back, letting Hosea go on without him and returns a little later that evening with four perfect boar pelts for Pearson to craft a rug for John’s lodging with. 

Perhaps it is time to let his final feelings of bitterness towards John go, and while it will undoubtedly be a lengthy process, Arthur’s sure he can manage it. Because, he doesn’t hate John, and he never did. That much is clear. 

Arthur loves John, more than he’ll probably let himself admit. But, it’s a love that’s so apparent that Hosea could see it without having to really look. So obvious that Abigail can see it, relates to it, even with such a warm fondness. So transparent that maybe the whole camp could see it, as if it was something Arthur wore right on his forehead. 

Maybe it’s time that Arthur let himself see it, too. 

***

Maybe it’s the talk with Hosea that has Arthur recruiting John with him and Bill up to Six-Point Cabin, with the use of Keiran to help locate the whereabouts of Colm. 

Riding up towards the O’Driscoll’s camp, with John riding close beside him, sharing a saddle with the self-denied O’Driscoll boy who’d been tied to a tree since they arrived in Horseshoe Overlook, Arthur falls into the habit of griping at John, again.

It still  _ hurts  _ to think about what John did all those years ago, and that  _ hurt  _ makes it easy to bicker with John, and well, John’s never been one to turn down a fight - as foolish and childish as it may be. 

It’s easy, an effortless back and forth between the two of them as if they had their own language. Perhaps it’s moreso for appearances, and perhaps the smirk that John wears on his face lets Arthur know he’s aware of this. A front to uphold with Kieran, who needs to be scared shitless right about now, and with Bill, who knows no other language than that of argument and fighting. 

Bill was born pissed off, Arthur reckons, but then again, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to say the same about himself.

“You see, O’Driscoll? If this is how he treats his friends, imagine what he does to his enemies.”

It might be a stretch to say Arthur isn’t still a little pissed off about John just up and running away, and it might be a stretch to say that John isn’t still pissed off at Arthur for  _ being  _ pissed off. It’s all too easy, and it’s all too practiced to  _ not  _ be at each other’s necks occasionally. 

And it’s all too easy to let John catch some of the frustration that Arthur still feels about Blackwater. John takes it all in stride well enough. 

It isn’t easy, however, to forget those moments they shared back at Colter and a few days after their arrival at Horseshoe. Ones that Arthur let himself forget about the differences between him and John and it was as if he’d never even left. Moments like that are fleeting and few in between, though, despite how hypocritical it might make the two of them seem.

“Y’know, you all ain’t that different from the O’Driscolls,” Kieran, unfortunately, voices the half-thought out point he’s got to a group that isn’t willing to listen. 

Arthur stopped listening to practically anything that was coming out of the boy’s mouth that wasn’t directions since they left camp. But, John’s listening, and it almost catches Arthur off guard - the amount of blind  _ fury _ that’s laced within John’s tone when he replies. 

A tone Arthur’s heard himself use many times before. 

“ _ What did you just say? _ ” 

Kieran sounds like he’s considering backpedaling now, which would be wise, but continues on. “I been watching you all these weeks, and uhh-”

“You been tied to a tree, you don’t know  _ nothin’  _ about this gang.”

This makes Arthur think back to what Hosea had said to him on that bear hunt so many days prior. About how he’d talked to John many times and how John knew the mistake he made, and how, at the time, Arthur had taken this with a grain of salt. 

Sure, John would easily feed Hosea the words he wanted to hear, because, at the time, Arthur still wanted to believe that John still refused to see his own wrongdoings. Listening to John, now, made that theory a little harder to believe. 

“You’re out to survive, we’re out to live -  _ free. _ ”

Sure, maybe it was just a bunch of horseshit to get Kieran to shut his mouth, or to show off in front of Bill and Arthur. 

John’s lack of loyalty was what had hurt the most, and Arthur had talked himself into believing that perhaps John never had it at all. Never had loyalty to Dutch, to Hosea, to Abigail and Jack, or to himself. That’s what made it so easy for Arthur to  _ hate.  _

Dislike. Distrust. He doesn’t know.

“From where I been, you just look the same is all,”

“Then you looked, but you ain’t  _ seen, _ ”

The words seem to hit Arthur as well as they do Kieran, as if John’s reading Arthur’s mind without even knowing it. Arthur thought he knew the situation so well up until now. But, he’d only  _ looked  _ without  _ seeing.  _

Later on, the O’Driscoll boy takes the life of another O’Driscoll on Arthur’s behalf. The boy saves his life. 

Perhaps there were many things Arthur looked at without truly seeing.

***

Out of all the things Arthur could’ve foreseen, returning to camp to find a letter written by his ex-fiancee definitely wasn’t once of them. 

It’d been a progressive few days. He and Hosea had gone out and found a place they could stash stagecoaches for an extra bit of money, they’d locked Micah up in jail up in Strawberry and Arthur and young Lenny had gone out to celebrate. 

He’d thought about John. Seems like he always thought about John nowadays. Or, at least, if there came a time when he wasn’t thinking about John, it didn’t take long for him to occupy Arthur’s thoughts once again.

John confused the hell outta him, to put it lightly. 

To think back, a process almost repetitive at this point, to the moment John set foot back in camp after a year without no regards - it still seemed to light a fire in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. But, perhaps, that fire didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. More like a dwindling ember than the raging inferno it had once been. 

More often than not, Arthur’s thoughts of John were pleasant, just as they were many years ago before Arthur had been given any reason to distrust or dislike him. 

Right now, however, it wasn’t John that occupied Arthur’s mind. 

Arthur knows who had left him the letter as soon as he lays eyes on the sprawling, messy handwriting. He glances down the letter and sure enough.  _ Yours, Mary Linton.  _

Arthur picks his gaze up to the top of the letter and begins to read. 

Mary is in Valentine, she’s in some sort of trouble, and she’s looking to see Arthur again. Of course. Arthur should’ve known better than to expect this to be an arrangement for some sort of social call. 

Arthur debates on whether or not he should take the bait and go see the woman that broke his heart so many years ago, or if he should just chuck the letter in the fire and forget all about it. 

“I was about to come and tell you that I saw that  _ Mary _ woman out here, spoke to her, even,” Arthur startles when he hears John’s voice, folding up the letter and hastily shoving it into his satchel as if it were some sort of evidence against him that needed to be hidden. 

“ _ Christ, Marston _ ,” Arthur looks up at where John’s leaning against the barrel holding his shaving kit, a satisfied and amused smirk plastered on his face. Arthur never took John for the sneaky type - he always seemed to favor doing things about as loud and bold as possible.

“She told me to tell you that she’d left a letter in your tent,” John continues, the smirk never leaving his features.

“Yeah, I got it,” Arthur says, gesturing to the satchel at his hip. 

It takes him a second to notice the way John’s looking at him, too busy trying to look everywhere that isn’t John, face still a bit flushed from being caught off guard. Arthur looks up and John’s looking right back at him, like he’s trying to figure him out or trying to look through Arthur completely.

He’s seconds away from asking John just what the hell he’s staring at until John breaks the silence once more, cutting off any curt remark Arthur thought of making. 

“You’re not gonna go see her, are you?” John asks, and the question is enough to catch Arthur off guard for a second time. A perfect echo of the decision Arthur was previously trying to make, himself.

“ _ Why _ ?” Arthur huffs, turning around to sit down on the edge of his cot. There’s still a bit of faint humor in his tone, but perhaps that could be directed towards John’s sudden concern. “You jealous or somethin’?”

“ _ No _ ,” John says, defensive enough that it lets Arthur suspect the complete opposite. “I just know that woman’s put you through a lot of hurt. She ain’t worth it, is all.”

How  _ ironic.  _

At that, Arthur laughs - more of a breathy chuckle than anything full-fledged, but it’s enough to let John know just how sanctimonious the statement he just made was, whether he realizes it or not. 

“Yeah, well, that seems to be the only sort of company I know how to keep - is those who put me through a lot of hurt,” Arthur says, and the look on John’s face tells that he has, in fact, made the realization and suddenly, Arthur can’t look at John anymore. 

The amount of raw guilt in the expression John’s wearing is enough to have Arthur staring down at the grass beneath his feet. 

Arthur listens to John scrape his boots in the dirt, as if he, too, is struggling to look anywhere but at him, and Arthur speaks again, his voice dropping down a notch or two quieter. “Doesn’t mean they ain’t all worth it.”

If Arthur’s being honest, he’d say that John was worth all the trouble in the world. Then, if he felt even more inclined, Arthur would say that it downright  _ frightened  _ him as to what he’d do for John. 

It had always been that way, maybe Arthur just never really thought about it. 

***

A couple of days later, catching John as he gets his morning cup of coffee and before he has the chance to wander off to the edge of the cliff to stare broodingly out at the horizon, Arthur suggests going out into Valentine to pick up a bounty.

John takes him up on the offer with a shrug and a half-smile. It’s usually quick work and the pay’s fair, so why not?

The conversation’s light on the way to Valentine, with Arthur assuming John’s still trying to wake himself up. Arthur doesn’t bring up the fact that he did, in fact, go and see Mary after the talk that he and John had. Which, he isn’t sure why, because it ain’t like he made a promise not to go and see her. 

He  _ did _ go see Mary, just out of general curiosity, and he  _ did _ oblige to her requests and brought her brother, Jamie, back safe. Perhaps she was right, in that he would never change, but that wasn’t something Arthur let himself dwell too much upon. 

A life with Mary was one he’d never lead, and Arthur had come to terms with that many moons ago. 

Somehow, as if reading Arthur’s mind, John does bring Mary up. Only, he waits until they’re out of the sheriff’s office and back on their horses to do so. 

“Well,” John says, as they head up towards the Dakota River in search of one Benedict Allbright. “did you go see Mary, then?” 

“Yes, I went an’ seen her,” Arthur answers easily enough. There’s no point in lying.

John chuckles like he never suspected the opposite. “It worth it?”

Now, it’s Arthur’s turn to laugh - just at how  _ absurd _ this conversation is, and considering it’s one he’d really rather not have.

“No, not entirely, if I’m bein’ honest - she sent me on some wild goose chase after her brother,” Arthur says. “but it’s good to help folk once in a while instead of just thinkin’ for  _ yourself _ , Marston.”

“I was thinkin’ of  _ you _ ,  _ Morgan _ ,” John snaps, seeming offended that Arthur chose to put them back on a last name basis. Maybe he was just pissed off that Arthur chose to go and see Mary. 

Arthur has given up trying to read John as of late.

“Whatever you say,” Arthur brushes off John’s retort as they head farther towards the gorge. “now, I didn’t bring you in on this to lecture me all day,” They take a corner that dips down along the river, and Arthur adds quietly but clear enough for John to hear, “no matter how ruffled your feathers got seeing me trot after some old flame-”

And John heard him, alright. “ _ What’s with you _ ?”

“What’s with  _ you _ ?” Arthur snaps at him, right back. He pulls back against his horse’s reins till he slows to a halt and turns around in his saddle to glare directly at John. “Worrying about me and Mary, now either you’re jealous or just plain nosy and I’m just startin’ to wonder what your feelings exactly are towards me-”

“Look, just  _ forget _ it, alright?” John slows his horse, too, if only for a second before picking up speed and riding right past Arthur. Even with a little distance between them, Arthur can still hear John fussing. “Forget I even said anything, let’s just go find this bastard and get paid.”

Arthur can’t think of anything he’d like better.


	3. Horseshoe Overlook: Part II

A couple of days later provides the rescue of Sean MacGuire from Ike Skelding’s bounty hunters’ grasps up the Upper Montana River. 

The boy had gotten himself in quite a pinch, on route to being locked up in a federal prison, but Arthur, along with Charles and Javier, managed to get him back to camp barely scathed. And Sean’s foreseen return definitely doesn’t go unnoticed that night, Dutch even suggests a party in his honor. 

What with the stars twinkling in the sky upon its last bit of light, and the camp full of lively chatter amongst the singing of the crickets, Arthur sees it as no better time for a celebration. 

Arthur hangs back, grabbing a few beers from the crate beside Dutch’s tent as most of the camp sings a song about the Louisville Maid, and it’s easy to take in. How content everyone seems to be, how high the spirits are, and how hopefulness lives on through every member of the gang. Even Arthur, despite getting jokingly accused of being old and grumpy by Sean right off the bat, feels as if things are finally looking up for the van der Linde gang. 

Then again, maybe it’s just the beer that’s mellowing him out and persuading him into this sort of wishful thinking.

Arthur spots John by the campfire, and Arthur isn’t sure if his eyes are just trained to seek John out automatically by now or if he just searches for him out of habit. Either way, it probably means something, although Arthur isn’t necessarily sure what. 

With the fire reflecting a warm glow upon the profile of his features, John seems as happy as the rest of the camp. He’s laughing at something Hosea or perhaps Lenny said, wheezy and obnoxious, and Arthur can hear it from where he stands. Arthur rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, and well, that probably means something, too. 

However, over the past few days, Arthur has become acutely aware of the massive space in his head that John seems to inhabit. Occupying his thoughts far more often than what deems necessary. It’s distracting, John’s distracting. 

Even dwelling over it now, half-empty beer bottle clutched against his chest, Arthur almost doesn’t hear Mary-Beth when she asks him for a dance. 

“Hm?” Mary-Beth’s expectant face looking at him a few feet away from where he stands, Arthur’s snapped out of his self-induced trance. 

“I’m sorry,” Arthur chuckles, shaking his head a bit as if it would help clear any of the last John-contaminated thoughts from his mind. “I was miles away.” 

Mary-Beth smiles at him, warm and friendly. “I asked if you would dance with me, Arthur.”

Arthur sets his beer bottle down next to the crate, and shrugs, a gesture more grand than it is subtle. “Sure,” he says, and Mary-Beth’s face lights up. “But I ain’t much of a dancer.” 

Mary-Beth doesn’t seem to mind, and the two of them dance along to Dutch’s phonograph, moving together far more awkwardly and lumbering in comparison to Dutch and Molly’s dance a few feet away. Arthur places himself at blame for this incoordination, seeing as awkward and lumbering are two of the many less flattering qualities he possesses. 

Mary-Beth’s still smiling at him, however, as warm as the campfire that was illuminating John’s face moments prior. 

With that thought, Arthur allows himself to glance back over at the campfire to see John staring directly at where he and Mary-Beth sway on the spot. 

Pearson, Lenny, and Hosea chatter on as if they don’t notice John’s sudden lack of attention, and something about John’s expression is off. The remnants of a laugh still lingering behind on his face, his off-kilter smile doesn’t reach his eyes as it did before and he looks bemused, to say the least, but the direction of his stare is unmistakable. 

His eyes could bore a hole right through Arthur now if possible, and Arthur stares back, as if it’s a competition. 

Apparently John comes to realize that Arthur’s noticed him, and he quickly diverts his gaze back to the group surrounding him. He isn’t the only one though, because Arthur can see Mary-Beth glancing over in the same direction in his peripheral. 

“Things are still tense between you two, huh?” She asks, a quiet hush of a whisper as if she’s afraid John could hear her from way across the camp. Arthur turns his attention back to her. 

Arthur shakes his head, laughing at himself more so than anything else. “Nah, not really. John can be a downright menace more often than not, but we’re alright for the most part.”

Mary-Beth smiles at him again, but it’s more knowing than it is anything else. “I don’t think you mean that, Arthur.”

“Mean what? About John being a _menace_?” 

“Yeah.”

Arthur feels a bit of heat rising to the tops of his ears, self-conscious at whatever Mary-Beth saw in that gaze he and John held. He isn’t drunk enough for this. 

“Well,” Arthur says, and he spins Mary-Beth around in a twirl in hopes that adding some flare to their routine swaying might aid in a distraction from the conversation topic. “Maybe I don’t mean it as much as I should.”

“I don’t think you mean it at all.”

***

After a few more beers and a couple of bottles of whiskey added on for good measure, Arthur’s feeling pretty good. 

Narrowly avoiding the Reverend and his drunken mumblings, Arthur plants himself at the table where John and Bill are seated. 

Seeming to have lost the edge he possessed earlier, John barely notices Arthur’s presence this time. Instead, all his attention lies on Bill, the two of them mid-conversation when Arthur sits down.

“You’re his _favorite,_ ” Bill’s saying, and John’s wearing a look about as skeptical as he can manage in his current drunken state. 

“Favorite?” John asks, reaching for his beer bottle to take another swig. “People care about that?”

“Sure, I mean...some do. A few people.” 

“Who?” 

“I don’t know,” Bill shrugs, and then hesitates. “Well - _me,_ or _not_ me. Maybe me. Shit, I don’t know.”

Despite the look of disbelief that John throws him on Bill’s behalf, Arthur has to admit, Bill has a point. John’s always been referred to as “the golden boy” for a reason. 

“I mean, like, hey, it’s like,” Bill’s stumbling over his words again, while John’s just struggling to keep himself seated upright. “I _love_ liquor.”

John fixes his gaze back on Bill, and he continues. “I _love_ liquor, but _liquor_ don’t love me.”

Arthur isn’t entirely sure how this example alludes to John being Dutch’s favorite, hell, Arthur isn’t even sure Bill knows. Perhaps a melancholy reference to Bill’s supposed unrequited devotion to Dutch.

Bill’s wrong, however, but Arthur doesn’t speak up to say so. Dutch loves them all, regardless. Dutch is loyal and looks out for every single member of this gang and that’s something Arthur keeps reminding himself when he hears whispers of how Dutch lost his head back in Blackwater. 

The man has a plan, after all. Or so he says. 

However, at Bill’s analogy, John laughs, all wheezy and breathless just as Arthur had heard him all night. 

“I know what you mean!” John manages, and they’re laughing together again. It’s a nice moment, Arthur thinks, or what could be considered a nice moment between the two of them. 

Bill and John never were considered to be close - there was far more they disagreed about than the other way around, but sitting here with them, quietly listening as they share this peace together, it’s nice.

Arthur stands, balancing himself against the table with both hands just in case his tipsiness hasn’t quite worn off yet, and he notices how John’s eyes abruptly follow him as he moves. Arthur wonders for a brief second if John even realizes he’s doing it, if he realizes how his gaze chases Arthur around camp just like how Arthur’s follows John. 

If John ever gets that feeling that Arthur gets sometimes that someone’s staring at him only to look back and realize there is. 

John reaches out for the empty beer bottle he knocked over on the table in the midst of his laughter, and Arthur can’t help but chuckle when John drops it back down again after rediscovering that it’s empty. 

“I think you’ve had enough of those, Marston,” Arthur says, and John hiccups out another wheezy laugh of his own. 

“I’d say you’re probably right,” John stands suddenly, unbalanced and wobbly on his feet. “I think maybe I should just go and lie down-”

John pushes himself away from the table, going to turn away, and nearly falls with the movement. Arthur instinctively reaches out and grabs for John’s forearm, steadying the other man. 

“Woah, don’t hurt yourself, now,” Arthur says, meaning the words to come out in a tone that’s fondly mocking, but instead they come out concerned. Worried, almost. The same tone he used to talk to John with back at Colter when they spent all those nights alone together. 

A tone far too fragile to be using here, now - right in front of Bill, of all people, but Arthur’s using it, and he’s _still_ got a vise-like grip on John’s forearm. 

It’s nothing - just a simple intuition, one that seems more of a sixth sense on John’s behalf. A gut reaction to keep John from doing something stupid, to keep John from getting himself hurt. Arthur thinks back to John finding him with the letter from Mary and thinks that maybe it's a sense that he and John both share. 

His hand is warm on John’s bare skin, though, from where John’s got the sleeves of his union suit rolled up. And John’s looking down at where Arthur’s hand is grasped around his arm, surprisingly steady now - and Arthur’s looking down at his own hand, too.

“Wouldn’t want you to bust open those stitches by falling over on your face,” Arthur says, as if it justifies his actions somehow, as if it justifies talking to John like he’s back in Colter on his near-death bed with a bandaged up face and not just about to stumble over his own two feet in a drunken, clumsy haze.

“Stitches are fine, Arthur,” John drags his gaze back up to Arthur’s face, and Arthur lets go of him. John lets his arm hang mid-air for a split-second as if Arthur’s still holding on to him before he seems to snap out of it and lets it fall back to his side. “Quit worrying over me so much, you’re about as bad as Abigail.”

John stumbles off in the direction of his tent, and nearly trips again. Marston’s always been clumsy and ungraceful, especially with those two left feet of his, and the apparent copious amounts of whiskey and beer he’s consumed tonight sure doesn’t help matters much. 

John eventually does fall, tripping over whatever pebble was in his pathway, and giving into his special John-induced sixth sense, Arthur moves away from where he’s standing. He mumbles dismissals to Bill - who’s too caught up in a nearby campfire song to be bothered - and Arthur follows after John. 

Arthur walks over to where John’s pushing himself up off the ground with a few unintelligible grumbles, as if he’s frustrated with himself for tripping or frustrated at gravity for daring to make him trip. Arthur helps him up, settling his hands on John’s shoulder and holding the man steady as he picks himself back up to his feet. 

Arthur’s always thought of himself as such a cruel man, one without regard, one who could easily threaten the lives and safety of innocent people. Maybe what tipped the scales or gave his own conscience a bit of relief on the days when his morals were weighing just a bit too heavy on him - was that Arthur had a few acts of kindness. A few moments of tenderness in which he did what was right and what was best for those he came into contact with.

Helping Mary get Jamie back from that religious cult, lifting that dead horse off that lady and giving her a ride back home, helping that one man when his stagecoach was being robbed by a bunch of thieves. Perhaps John was one of these instances, in which Arthur did what was right and treated him with tenderness. 

Perhaps John was something more. Perhaps all those acts of kindness was just a stepping stone and John was the whole goddamn boulder. 

“‘m fine,” John mutters, but he lets Arthur lead him over to his tent anway, and Arthur keeps his hands still firmly clasped onto John’s shoulders until he’s easing John down on his cot in his tent.

John lies back easily enough, bringing his hands up to his face to rub over his eyes as if that’ll help alleviate some of the inebriation.

“You alright?” Arthur asks, and John gives a nod, albeit not a very convincing one. 

John removes his hands from his face and stares up at where Arthur stands above him, and Arthur isn’t sure why he hasn’t left yet, but he hasn’t - and the two of them are just staring at each other like they were back in this very tent when they all first arrived at Horseshoe Overlook. 

Arthur steadies his own breathing, holding John’s stare, watching as John opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. Watches as John closes his mouth as if he’s given up on words altogether.

But then John opens his mouth again, and apparently, he’s found the right words this time. “I love you, Arthur.”

A man such as Arthur, a man in which Arthur believes himself to be - it’s a personal surprise to himself that he’s heard these words plenty of times in the past. Sometimes more casual than not, sometimes meaningful and raw enough that Arthur feels the words weren’t meant for him - _couldn’t_ be meant for him.

Hell, Sean had told Arthur earlier that day that he loved him. Sean loved Arthur for saving his ass and all for the same reasons Arthur loved every single member of this gang. 

Mary had told him a few times before that she’d loved him, and more often than not, those were the times when Arthur felt the words weren’t truly meant for him. Eliza had told him too, even if she didn’t mean it to the degree in which she’d thought she did. 

Arthur could easily wave John’s words off and assume they hold the same meaning that Sean’s did. But John didn’t exactly _say_ it like Sean did, and John isn’t _looking_ at Arthur like Sean did. 

He means it. Arthur can tell that John means it with every fiber of his being that he _loves_ Arthur. 

Arthur has to nearly swallow down the urge to say it back. But, he wants to. 

“Right,” Arthur says, instead. He has to turn away from John and start off like he’s leaving because suddenly John’s looking at him like perhaps he’s disappointed that Arthur didn’t say it back. “we’ll see how much you love me when all that drinking you’ve done tonight catches up with -”

“No, no. I mean it. I love you,” John insists hurriedly, and that makes Arthur stop in his tracks, hand paused mid-way, reaching out to pull back the flaps of John’s tent to let himself out. John’s still slurring a bit over his words and yet he sounds far too sober for a man in his condition. “but you don’t love me, d’you?”

Arthur’s reminded of Bill’s words earlier, and how he’d said the same thing about loving liquor. Although this proclamation wasn’t delivered as _intensely_ as John’s is now, Arthur still feels a pang of hurt - questionable and unknowing, that perhaps the analogy is the same. 

As if Arthur is some sort of indulgence to John, perhaps a guilty one that John feels is completely unrequited. 

It isn’t, of course, because Arthur loves John. If he’s being honest with himself, Arthur loves John in the same way. It makes everything so much clearer, now, that Arthur’s standing here in this dark tent with John bearing his soul to him. 

They love each other. 

John had told Bill that he’d known what he meant, but had he really?

***

John’s words reign heavy in Arthur’s mind for the next couple of days, he writes down in his journal that they’d impaired his judgement and clouded his thoughts - therefore justifying him breaking Micah out of jail back in Strawberry. 

He knows that isn’t true, of course, and considers crossing it out, but he leaves it. He clarifies that perhaps he isn’t sure why he broke someone as bothersome as Micah out of a place where he surely belonged, was for Dutch. Perhaps because Dutch saw something in Micah that Arthur hasn’t seen, nor will he probably ever.

Abigail asks him to take Jack fishing that morning, to which Arthur agrees, and the two of them spend the day off a little ways from camp fishing. 

In many ways, Jack is the perfect combination of his two parents. He has Abigail’s wits, thankfully, and he has John’s offhandedness and impatience at times. He seems to favor his mother more so in the face but he has John’s smile, though, so much so that it catches Arthur off guard sometimes. 

Their day is cut short, however, when the Pinkertons show up, unannounced but not completely unforeseen. Arthur’s lived this life long enough to know that you can’t run forever, he just regrets that Jack had to be around for the conversation. 

Arthur takes Jack back to Abigail, to which he gives her the little necklace of flowers he’d made for her, and Arthur goes to warn Dutch of his encounter with Agent Ross and Agent Milton. 

***

“I say we do nothing,” Dutch took the news about the Pinkertons just about as Arthur would’ve expected, yet his solution isn’t something Arthur’s entirely sure about. “just yet. They’re just trying to scare us into doing something stupid.”

“We have turned a corner, we survived them mountains,” Dutch says, accentuating his words. “We just need to stay calm.” 

“Arthur!” Both Arthur and Dutch turn to face the direction of Jack’s voice to see the boy running up to where the two of them stand. 

Jack’s holding a piece of paper, which by glancing at it - looks like a drawing, and Arthur automatically crouches down to Jack’s height when he reaches him and Dutch. “Here, I drew you a picture!”

“Why, thank you, Jack,” Arthur smiles warmly at the boy before taking the piece of paper handed to him. Jack lingers by as Arthur turns it over and looks at it, as does Dutch - Arthur can practically feel him looking over his shoulder.

Although Arthur wasn’t sure what to expect originally from the drawing - Jack’s gave him a numerous amount of drawings since he was old enough to hold a pencil, all of them containing different subjects. 

This one, however, isn’t quite what Arthur could say he expected.

The picture is of a small house, with a tree nearby and a sun overhead. Standing in front of the house are a couple of sheep with a woman - presumably Abigail, a small boy - presumably Jack, a man with a hat - presumably John. 

There’s another man standing beside John, however, that Arthur doesn’t quite recognize but he has an idea as to who it _could_ be.

“Jack, who’s this other feller here beside your pa?” Arthur turns the picture around to points to the other figure.

Jack’s face seems to light up, even more so. “That’s you!”

Then he runs through the entire group of people presented in the drawing with the same amount of enthusiasm. “Ma, me, Pa, and _you_!”

Arthur’s gaze automatically drifts up across camp to see Abigail looking upon the two of them, watchful in her normal nature when she’s keeping an eye on Jack across camp - but there’s something different about her expression. 

Something about as soft and warm to it as the expression she wore when asking Arthur to take Jack fishing. Arthur’s lips twitch up at her before turning his attention back to Jack, who’s still absolutely beaming at him.

“Of course it is,” Arthur says, taking another glance at the picture. “That’s very nice, Jack, thank you.”

Arthur hears Dutch chuckle from behind him, and for a split second, Arthur forgot Dutch was even there. Jack scurries off and Arthur rises to his full height, the drawing still clutched in his hands, and he turns around to face the other man.

“What?”

Dutch is smiling, one of the few sincere ones Arthur has seen him wear. 

“That’s a true gift to have - _love_ , those who love you,” Dutch says, gesturing to the drawing. “It all gets us eventually.”


	4. Horseshoe Overlook: Part III/Clemens Point: Part I

John, a face full of still-healing black and blue bruises, calls Arthur over a couple of days later. 

John tells him about a train: something he heard from Uncle, something Uncle heard from Mary-Beth. This train that was due to be heading through Scarlet Meadows seemed like a pretty fortunate opportunity, something Arthur had considered, but not fully.

Trains were always a hassle, and yet they seemed to be Dutch’s favorite type of job.

John comes up with the semi-brilliant idea of stopping the train with a wagon full of oil parked right in the middle of the tracks, an idea that Arthur can’t help but compliment John on. John always swells up with pride when one of his ideas is praised, doesn’t matter who it’s really coming from. Arthur, Dutch, Hosea. 

Maybe he’s just glad to be back in on the action again.

John leaves Arthur with the objective of finding an oil wagon and leaving it near Dewberry Creek. Things are lighter between the two of them, now. Finally.

Arthur considers for a moment that everything seems back to normal, but then he remembers John telling him he loved him a few nights ago and the folded up drawing of him along with Abigail, Jack, and John tucked away in his satchel. 

John, along with his family, has become something that has embedded itself within Arthur’s brain. John, and everything that revolves around him has become something that’s stuck with Arthur, something Arthur can never seem to shake. 

John and Abigail having Jack, John leaving, John coming back, finding John up on that mountain, John on his near-death bed with bloodied bandages, Abigail sewing stitches into John’s skin, John telling Arthur he loves him, Jack with his unmistakable drawing of a happy family that could be.

A happy family that isn’t just Abigail, Jack, and John. But Abigail, Jack, John, and Arthur, himself.

Neither John nor Arthur have mentioned John’s love confession. Nobody’s mentioned the drawing, either.

But, it’s all _there_ . It _happened._ Arthur can’t just pretend that it didn’t. He doesn’t want to, either.

Still, it all goes unmentioned, leaving Arthur to wonder if John even remembers telling Arthur how he felt. Even if he doesn’t, John still feels it.

John has rambled out numerous things he didn’t mean when he was drunk enough, Arthur has seen it time and time again, but _this_ Arthur knows is real. John was sincere in his words: the sound of his voice, the look on his face - it’s all burned into Arthur’s mind.

He knows John meant it. The only thing Arthur regrets about that night is not saying it back.

***

He tells John about the wagon, and suggests they bring Charles in, too. This job is shaping up to be something Arthur feels confident about, something he knows they can all pull off without any trouble.

“See, Arthur,” John says as he’s going to walk away, and Arthur turns back to face him. “I ain’t that dumb.”

Arthur thinks he can see a glimpse of the look John had given him the night of Sean’s party, a small glimmer of his own affection for Arthur. 

It almost catches him off guard.

“Next time let the wolves eat all your brain,” Arthur chuckles, but the tease doesn’t quite hit as right as it usually does. “Then, you’ll be a genius.”

Instead of coming up with some hot-headed retort that Arthur’s practically preparing himself for, John just laughs. Wheezy and goofy like his laugh always is. It’s probably Arthur’s favorite sound in the whole world.

That night, Arthur dreams about John. About his ridiculous laugh, and his smile that Arthur doesn’t see enough of.

He dreams about the drawing that’s now hanging up along the side of the wagon next to his cot. He dreams about Abigail and her warm smile, first directed at Jack who’s sitting in front of her then when she looks up, she’s smiling at Arthur, too.

He dreams about the four of them on some ranch, with a couple of sheep, a tree, and the sun high in the sky - Jack’s drawing come to life.

Arthur wakes up, heads out of camp to meet up at the wagon without saying a word, and he knows that’s the future he wants. He’d seen many lives for himself in the past, but this is the one he truly wants. The one that feels as if it were made for him, one where he belongs.

***

The train robbery goes off with the four of them ending up with a bit more company than Arthur intended. Not perfect, but they still manage to get paid. They still need something bigger, enough to get them moving again.

And with some of the Pinkertons finding Arthur while he was out fishing with Jack, it makes Arthur feel real uneasy. 

Near Horseshoe, a bit too close for comfort.

It’s only a matter of time before they find them for real.

John says he’ll look into another take, in Valentine, and with a little luck, maybe they all can get out of here soon enough.

***

John’s scoped out plan in Valentine is revealed in the form of herding stolen sheep and selling them.

John leads him into town to purchase (or “purchase”) a rifle from the gunsmith, a task Marston could’ve easily accomplished himself but waves off with an excuse about some altercation he apparently had with the feller earlier.

Something he tries being reticent about at first, but really, John’s been a bit _odd_ about this whole ordeal to begin with. He tries to make it look like he’s upset about Arthur and Jack’s fishing trip, but Arthur knows that ain’t all it.

But it leads Arthur to bring up his bitterness about John’s disappearance, something he’d thought he’d managed to finally leave behind him. 

“Just do one thing or another, not be two people at once, that’s all I’m saying,” Arthur says, and the statement probably has two underlying meanings if Arthur were to dwell on it.

“It ain’t that simple,” John says, and Arthur _knows_ that, but - “you know that as well as anyone.”

“Same with you and that girl,” John can be an asshole at times. He can be just as good at harping on something well in the past. “What was her name - _Mary_?”

John knows her name just as well as Arthur does. Arthur knows that John has his regrets about leaving the gang just as well as John does.

They’re both so good at pushing each other’s buttons that it seems the two of them have what words dig the most memorized. Nobody can get underneath Arthur’s skin like John Marston can. 

“That was different-”

“ _No_ , it _ain’t_ \- just the same.”

***

Passing off the sheep doesn’t go as smoothly as John might’ve hoped, and the percentage deal isn’t lowered as much as Arthur would’ve hoped, either. He lets John talk down the number, and for a split second Arthur thinks John’s just calling out random numbers. 

_Eighteen percent._ Hell, they’re the one’s getting’ robbed.

“Still good money,” John tells him as they head into Valentine to meet Dutch at the saloon.

Despite Arthur’s grumbling, John seems in good spirits about their tradeoff, which in a sense, Arthur can admire. Even if that’s something he won’t admit to at the time.

“Come on, sunshine,” John even gives him a small pat on the shoulder as he passes, horse already hitched and heading up the stairs to the saloon. Arthur glances at him just in time to catch the smile on John’s face. Amused but not mockingly so. “I’ll buy you a whiskey.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t afford to keep, Marston,” Arthur jokes, rolls his eyes just so John can catch it.

And John only laughs, holding the door open for Arthur as he enters behind him.

***

John leaves the saloon with Strauss and ends up getting himself held up at knifepoint _and_ gunpoint out in the street in front of the saloon by Cornwall’s men.

John’s eyes are glued to Arthur as he and Dutch step out onto the porch, hands raised, that much doesn’t go unnoticed. Arthur quickly maps out his shots, firing the first one into the head on the man that has his arm around John’s throat, and John hits the ground, pulling out his own gun and firing a shot into the head of the man who has a hold of Strauss.

It all leads up to another godawful mess of a shootout that will undoubtedly send them on their way once more. 

And into the state of Lemoyne it sends them. Farther and farther east. 

***

Within the passing of Spring, brings the sweltering, dewy mornings of Summer within that of Clemens Point. A new start, a new place to lie low. 

It’s humid within this region of Scarlet Meadows, so much so that it seems Arthur wakes with a sheen of sweat already on his skin. Folk around camp are still lively enough, what with Sadie threatening Pearson, and Dutch still harping on about his plans for all of them. 

As a group. As a gang. 

They mustn't give up faith now.

It’s after they’ve all settled into their new camp and Arthur’s been sent into town with Sadie to check the mail that he finds John, standing off to the side of the camp, out near the water. Staring out into it.

Jack plays, a few feet away from where his father stands, and Arthur gives him a small smile and a greeting as he passes by, his presence still unknown to John.

“I think you’re safe from here,” Arthur says when he’s within arms reach of John, and the other man startles slightly at the sound of his voice. “If you work up the courage to actually go out in it, well, that could be a different story.”

“Very funny,” John says, although there’s no bitterness in his tone. “Think I might just learn how to swim just so you’ll have to find something new to harp on about.”

Arthur chuckles at this, reaches out and pats John on the shoulder. “And I surely would. Seein’ as you’re one of my favorite people to harp on about to.”

His hand lingers there, against the fabric of John’s shirt. He glances over at John to see him smiling, albeit a tiny thing, moreso a subtle upturning at the corners of his mouth.

His bruises have faded, more or less. Pretty soon, Abigail will be able to take out the stitches.

“Scratches are lookin’ better,” Arthur muses when John doesn’t reply. Or when John glances over to catch him staring. Arthur hadn’t even realized he was. 

John shrugs, looking back out towards the water. “Gonna leave some nasty scars behind, though.”

“I think it’d give you _character_ , Marston,” Arthur says, jostling John slightly with the hand that still remains on his shoulder. “you never can have too much of that.”

“Right,” John laughs now, a sound Arthur has now come to cherish when he hears it. Like birds singing or the sound of a light rain hitting against the canvas of his tent. “seein’ as you’re quite a _character_ , yourself.”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

Things so quiet between the two of them for a moment. A peaceful, soothing kind of quiet as they both gaze out towards the water, at the sun setting against it, coloring the sky in a beautiful array of pinks and blues.

Arthur can hear Jack talking to himself as he plays. He can hear some of the girls laughing as they finish up whatever chores Grimshaw has assigned them with. He hears someone whistling, far away enough that he can barely make it out, although he doesn’t glance behind him to see who the sound is coming from.

He just watches the sun setting against the horizon, with John, his hand now fallen away back to his side. John moves his hand and it brushes up against the back of Arthur’s, and for a brief moment, Arthur wonders if he were to grab ahold of his hand -

“You been into town yet?” John asks suddenly, stopping Arthur’s train of thought.

“Yeah, just got back a while ago,” Arthur answers, glancing back over at him. “went and checked the mail and picked up some supplies for Pearson. Why?”

“Thought about goin’ myself - I don’t know,” John shrugs again. “Gettin’ kind of sick listening to everyone complain about the heat and Dutch being paranoid.”

“Dutch is always paranoid,” Arthur glances behind him to see the man in question by his tent, chatting with Hosea. About how they can take advantage of the new location, undoubtedly. “you have to be in this business.”

“I guess,” John catches his eye when Arthur turns his attention away from the two. He’s still got that half-smile lingering behind on his features. “you wanna head out with me? Grab a drink or somethin’?”

“Sure,” Arthur says, and he laughs, quiet and light. “seein’ as you never bought me that whiskey you promised.”

***

Rhodes Parlour House is probably one of the finer drinking establishments Arthur’s been to, or at least it seems that way.

Candlesticks on everytable, fancy drapes, even a few plants in the corners of the room. It certainly isn’t the mud-caked saloon that was left behind in Valentine, and it has Arthur sort of feeling out of place as soon as he steps inside.

Arthur’s gazing around must go noticed by John, because it’s not long after he feels the warmth of John’s hand on his back, edging him on forward. 

John buys two whiskey. One for him, one for Arthur. 

“I was only jokin’ about the whiskey, Marston,” Arthur says when John’s pushing the shot glass into his hand.

“I know,” John tells him, and raises his glass to clink the edge of it against Arthur’s.

A toast. 

Neither of them clarify as to what, but the smile they share says enough.

***

When the moon is high in the sky, dusk settling in behind it, John and Arthur set up camp, far away enough that they won’t run into any Lemoyne Raiders. Neither of them brought a tent, so they just grab the bedrolls off the back of their horses and lay them out near the campfire. 

Arthur lays back on his bedroll, the fire crackling a few feet away from him, close enough that he can still feel a bit of the heat coming off it. He’s not tired yet, not really, so he stares up at the sky and watches as dusk fades into night.

John sits beside him, on a patch of stomped down grass, a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he speaks.

“Reckon Dutch and Hosea are planning on taking over this town, too, Hosea’s been out and -” John pauses, glancing down at Arthur, then glances up into the sky to where Arthur’s gazing, then back down.

“I’m listenin,” Arthur assures him, and John laughs, huffed under his breath. 

“Looks like you’re stargazin’ to me.” 

John pulls the cigarette away from his lips, blowing out a puff of smoke in one long wisp that circles up towards the air, towards the stars, towards the moon.

And the moon watches over the two of them, illuminating John’s features in a way that makes it seem like he’s almost glowing when Arthur looks up at him. Arthur has to stop himself from saying something dumb, like the only star in the universe he’d ever have any interest in looking at would be John. A million times over. 

A star so bright that it could light up the whole world. Arthur’s whole world. 

Perhaps a star wouldn’t do John justice. Perhaps he was the moon.

And if he were the moon, would that make Arthur the sun? 

A pair who always seem to be chasing after one another, only to finally catch up to one another and surround the world in an eclipse. 

Truth be told, Arthur wouldn’t mind spending the rest of his life chasing after John, if that’s what it took. 

John hands the cigarette down to Arthur and settles back, propping himself up with his hands spread out on the grass behind him, and Arthur takes a drag off the cigarette. John’s cigarette. And blows up his own cloud of smoke to mingle with John’s in the air.

For a moment, everything seems so far away. The bitterness about John leaving. John standing idly by, kicking at the dirt with his boot as Arthur debated on whether or not he should go see Mary. John telling him that he loved him that night at Sean’s party. 

The picture of him, John, Abigail, and Jack that’s hanging up next to his cot. Even hours ago, when they were back in Rhodes, not having nearly enough shots to really feel anything, but just enjoying each other’s company.

Arthur wants to ask John if he even remembers telling him that he loved him, he’s wanted to ask him for quite some time now. But, looking up at John, looking at his profile which seems to glow in the moonlight, and then seeing John glance down at him, eyes half-lidded and smile lopsided. 

It’s as if his answer is right there.

John remembers. 

John loves him, and he still loves him. And Arthur loves him, too. 

Then, as if answering every question Arthur has ever had, John plucks the cigarette out from between Arthur’s lips, and leans down, and Arthur feels like his mouth is as dry as a desert when John kisses him.

Arthur’s hands are still clasped together on his chest, and John’s hand hangs off to the side above them, holding the cigarette between his fingers. 

Arthur knows the troubles of this, knows that love never lasts with him. Not with Eliza, and not with Mary. Arthur has lived these last few years coming to terms with this. That he’d never have a fate that ended with love, not in the way he desired it. 

But, kissing John, now. Unclasping his hand from the other to hold onto John’s arm that he’s using to prop himself up against Arthur, gentle and timid, and feeling the warmth of his skin underneath his shirt sleeve. Arthur can believe the exact opposite.

A life of love, with John. With Abigail and Jack. All four of them, on some little farm, in some little house, with a pair of sheep and a sun hanging above them.

And it’s the only life Arthur could imagine for himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John: But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Arthur Morgan is the sun.


	5. Clemens Point: Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new tags & a rating change??? what could that mean

Times are good. 

Things seem to be finally looking up once again.

Dutch is happy - pleased with the progress they’ve made already with the Grays. _Deputized and hiding in plain sight._

Another plan in action, no doubt. 

Arthur has to admit, he is a _little_ curious to see what Hosea has in mind for that wagon full of moonshine.

Perhaps they can all breathe easy for a little while longer - or at least as much as possible in the muggy heat of Lemoyne. 

He and Dutch race back to camp, and by some streak of luck, Arthur’s old Tennessee Walker beats The Count. Just barely, but enough that Arthur takes advantage of the bragging rights when they reach Clemens Point.

He hasn’t been in this good of a mood since...well, since that night spent in Rhodes with John.

And as if mere instinct, or a force of habit, Arthur immediately spots John sitting at one of the tables. Summoned by the thought. 

Arthur doesn’t even realize he’s smoothing down his hair as he approaches the table. 

John’s preoccupied with a copy of the Saint Denis Times, so much so that he doesn’t hear Arthur approach, but he doesn’t startle when Arthur clears his throat. 

He peers up with a slight curl at the corner of his mouth, undoubtedly recognizing the broad-shouldered shadow cast over him, and Arthur tries not to let his gaze linger. 

“This seat taken?” Arthur gestures to the empty wooden chair beside John, and John’s eyes briefly flicker to it before returning to Arthur’s face.

“All yours.”

Arthur pulls back the chair and takes a seat, John’s gaze following him as he does so, and when Arthur settles, John leans forward and reaches out with the hand not grasping the newspaper.

Arthur’s heart goes still in his chest, his shoulders straighten once more on instinct, and John’s fingers close around the brass star pinned to his shirt, squinting at it against the gleam of the sun. 

Arthur relaxes again, mentally kicking himself. _Jumpy for no goddamn reason._

John notices, of course he notices, and he sits back with a smirk. “Easy there, deputy.”

“Somethin’ Dutch has got stirred up,” Arthur picks at his shirt, glancing down at the star like he just now remembered it being there. And, well, maybe he did sort of forget all about it. “Got me and Bill playin’ deputy for Sheriff Gray.” 

John goes back to his paper, smirk still firmly in place. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Nothin,” John glances up at Arthur for only a brief second and then flickers down to start scanning the page of the newspaper once again.

Maybe if they were younger, Arthur might assume that John’s pissed about Dutch picking Arthur over him to go play deputy, but they ain’t kids anymore and John’s _still_ looking a bit too _pleased_ with himself to show any signs of bitterness. 

The sound of Dutch coming from behind him helps to distract Arthur for a moment, and he glances back to see Dutch and Hosea talking together. All laughs and smiles from ear to ear. It’s good to see the two of them like that again. Happy and hopeful, like they should be. 

Arthur turns back to John with a sigh, but his words are warm. “Dutch is happy.”

“I noticed,” John puts the paper down again as he regards Dutch and Hosea from over Arthur’s shoulder. His smile fades into something a little more sincere. 

He folds the paper up and sets it down on the table, tilting his chin up towards Arthur. “What about you?”

Arthur’s brows furrow, not quite catching John’s meaning. “What about me?”

“Are _you_ happy?”

John asks the question like it should’ve been obvious from the start, although his grin doesn’t hold the same tone of mild frustration.

And while it is more of a simple question, it catches Arthur off guard. Definitely not being one that he’s sat around and thought about for quite a while now. 

Living the life they all do, makes it difficult to be truly happy or satisfied - just more of a gilded expansion of the word. Might be a reach to say he was, or ever has been. 

But then Arthur thinks about that drawing hanging up next to his cot. The flower from the west that represents his mother’s superstition of good luck. Arthur thinks maybe she was onto something, there.

“Yes,” Arthur’s answer finally comes, with every ounce of honesty he can manage to pour into it, meeting John’s gaze head-on, now. 

Then, “You?”

While John might not take as long to produce his answer, he sounds just as sincere. “Yeah.”

***

A few days later finds Arthur sitting on the ground in John’s tent, clothes still a bit damp from roaming around in the water to deliver that letter and bracelet to Penelope Braithwaite. John had laughed as soon as he saw him, said he looked like a drowned rat. 

It was almost too hard to resist the quick remark of how John _would_ be a drowned rat if he even stepped foot into any sort of body of water, but Arthur managed to hold his tongue. If he used John’s inability to swim as a quick tease too often, it might just lose its spark.

“All I know is this all better be worth it,” Arthur says, his head leaned back against John’s cot. John’s stretched out above him, whittling away at a piece of wood. “runnin’ around with letters, like some retellin’ of Romeo and Juliet. A _fine_ example of modern romance those two are.”

“I never read it,” John says without looking up from the undistinguishable shape in his hand. 

Every once in awhile a wood shaving will land in Arthur’s hair and he’ll shoot John a look, only for it to be met with a feined innocent smile that leads Arthur to believe that John intended for it to. 

“Dutch never made you read it?” Arthur asks, letting his head loll back a bit against the cot.

“Nope.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky, then.”

***

“Hey, Arthur.”

He runs into Abigail a day or two later in camp, Jack just a step behind her. 

“Hey, Abigail,” He returns her smile, and glances down to offer one to Jack, aswell, which gets mirrored almost immediately. “Hey, Jack. What’s going on?”

“Hosea and John are looking for you,” Abigail tells him. “They went out to the _moonshine stash_ , said you knew where that was.”

Looks like Hosea finally found a use for that moonshine after all. 

“They was planning a visit to the Braithewaite place,” Abigail continues. “but Dutch has John doin’ something for him, so Hosea wants you to join him. I don’t know - seems to be a lot goin’ on.” 

“You’re tellin’ me,” Arthur chuckles, and starts off towards the hitching posts. “Thank you, Abigail.”

“Hey, Arthur,” Abigail calls out when he gets a few feet away, and Arthur pauses, turns back to look at her. 

“You be careful, alright?” 

Arthur isn’t sure what it is about that, maybe the look on Abigail’s face or the way she says it, but it makes his stomach drop a bit.

And not necessarily in the bad kind of way, but it leaves behind a warm kind of feeling that reminds Arthur of the feeling he got when Mary told him she loved him for the first time. Maybe even similar to the feeling he got when John told him all those nights ago - it seems so far away now, but Arthur can remember the feeling like it was yesterday. 

Arthur heaves himself up onto the saddle of his horse and rides off towards where the wagon full of moonshine was left, thinking maybe that little “be careful” was Abigail’s own way of saying she loved him, too. 

***

(When Arthur reaches the wagon, John keeps glancing at him like he’s trying to grab Arthur’s attention, or perhaps avoid it entirely. Arthur doesn’t fully figure out which John sought out to do until he gets back to camp and finds the letter left by his cot.)

***

The letter’s hidden well enough that Arthur might’ve not seen it had he not been looking. Folded up neatly enough that Arthur suspects maybe Mary has stopped by again and asked for another favor.

Arthur picks it up with a sigh and unfolds it, fully expecting to see Mary’s elegant, sweeping handwriting but sees John’s, instead. All messy and underlined.

_BASTILLE SALOON. TONIGHT._

***

“This _your_ doin’?” Arthur tosses the paper down on the table, and it lands with a gentle sway right in front of John. With the humid breeze that sometimes filters through the camp, he’s lucky the paper didn’t float off - it definitely would’ve ruined Arthur’s big dramatic confrontation. 

John glances up at him, then down at the paper, then back to Arthur.

“Why d’you automatically assume it’s me?” John grins, then adds with feigned jealously. “I ain’t the only one to ever leave love letters by your bedside.”

Arthur wants to make a dig about how he’d recognize John’s chicken scratch anywhere, but that last bit makes him lose his train of thought. 

“Oh, so this is a _love letter_?” Arthur feels the corners of his mouth twitch. Damn John and his contagious smiles. “Never knew you had such a way with words.” 

“Neither did I.” 

Arthur pulls back the chair next to John and sits, gesturing to the paper once more. “So, what’s at the Bastille Saloon, and why do I gotta be there tonight?” 

A small gust of wind floats by them, too small to be considered anything of a real breeze, but it’s enough to jostle the paper. John catches it before it can fly off the side of the table and folds it back up, and his eyes leave Arthur to gaze down at it in his hands as he does so.

Both sets of eyes are on the paper now, watching as John folds the thing with more carefulness than Arthur’s probably ever seen him handle anything in his entire life. Maybe it’s obvious John’s trying to distract himself, or maybe he’s just trying to think of something to say.

“Well, _me_ ,” He says without looking up, and his smile still lingers. “And that whiskey you’re gonna buy me. And tonight’s just a suggestion - it could be any time you want.”

Arthur can’t help but take the bait, leaning forward a bit. “Who said I was buyin’ you a whiskey?” 

“I bought the last one,” John’s gaze flicks back up to meet Arthur’s, and he hands the folded paper back to him. Arthur takes it, but just holds it there, like his hand is frozen. “I reckon it’s your turn.” 

“Okay, fair enough,” Arthur chuckles, then realizes he’s still holding the paper and tucks it back in the pocket of his shirt. “So, tonight?”

John shrugs, a slight jerk of his shoulder. “Whenever you want.”

***

The Bastille Saloon is filled with patrons in the late hours of the night, just as Arthur expects - but with a quick scan around in a room overflowing with people is enough to tell Arthur that John’s nowhere in sight. 

Arthur knows he’s here, because he saw Old Boy hitched up outside. Arthur even hitched his own horse next to Old Boy, giving both of the horses a pat on their noses before heading inside. 

Arthur makes his way to the bar, knowing John will show himself eventually - playing a little game of hide and seek is definitely something John Marston wouldn’t be above doing. 

And Arthur’s right, because he’s just about to order himself a whiskey when John appears behind him, goofy smile right in place. 

“There you are,” Arthur says to him. “Was startin’ think you stood me up.”

Then, within one fluid motion, John’s tugging on Arthur’s arm, pulling him away from the bar and towards the stairs. “Come on.”

“Thought you wanted me to buy you a whiskey,” Arthur says, and he lets himself be lead, eyes flickering down to where John’s hand is grasping at the fabric of his sleeve. 

“Another time, sweetheart,” John flashes Arthur another grin over his shoulder as the two of them advance up the stairs. “I got a better idea.”

“Sweetheart?” Arthur parrots the nickname back at him, an almost incredulous edge on his voice to hide how much he likes the sound of it. One admission he’ll take to the grave, is how much he enjoys John’s nicknames for him. 

Sunshine, being one Arthur could appreciate the ironic humor in at first, only to discover maybe the irony wasn’t intentional when John kept using it.

Pretty boy, being one Arthur had allowed to John and John only - another one that had started out with a tinge of irony. (Even with the addition of a few healed up scars adorning his features now, Arthur still considers John to be the more attractive one between the two of them.)

And now sweetheart. Arthur likes the way it sounds coming out of John’s mouth, about as fluid and commonplace as if John were just saying his name. 

John doesn’t make any further comments about the nickname, only continues leading Arthur up to the second floor of the saloon, and into a room that’s just about as lavish as the rest of the building.

Only when they’re both standing in the room, does John let go of Arthur, taking a few steps out into the middle and doing one big sweeping gesture with his hand as if he’d personally decorated the room himself. 

Arthur closes the door behind him with a slight kick of his boot and lingers there, awaiting some sign of explanation if John provides one, and taking advantage of the opportunity to just watch John. 

Wearing a smile a bit wider than Arthur usually sees it, and one he wouldn’t mind seeing more often - Arthur’s reminded again of how “Pretty boy” would probably be better suited for John. 

He’d tell John that, maybe. Tell him he’s handsome, but Arthur knows John’s heard it before. 

Maybe not exactly in the way _he_ means it, but still. 

“Very nice,” Arthur says to the room, instead, taking in his surroundings of nice hardwood flooring and velvet sheets, the same shade of burgundy as the wallpaper. He glances behind him for a place to put his hat, and ends up hanging it on the coat rack near the door. “You bring me up here just to brag about your fancy room, Marston?” 

“No,” John scoffs, arms falling back against his sides. A show of deflation that could be akin to pouting. “It’s not _just mine_ , I got it for the both of us.”

There’s at least two or three (maybe two and a half) feet of space between the two of them, John still standing near the foot of the bed in the middle of the room and Arthur still lingering by the closed door. Arthur isn’t sure how to describe it, but that little bit of space feels different between them now. A slight shift in the air, not quite tense but maybe warmer. 

It encourages Arthur to take a step, and then another. Not quite at arms length but almost. 

“Well, that’s very _kind_ of you,” Arthur says, and John watches his mouth as he speaks. The way John’s eyes go a little hooded makes Arthur want to take another step closer, and he does. “What’s the occasion?”

“Well,” John breathes the word out, his eyes still lingering on Arthur’s mouth. “Thought it’d give us a little privacy.”

Arthur thinks he chuckles at this, but it might just sound like a stuttering little gasp of breath. 

“You must think of me as a cheap date,” Arthur jokes. ”You buy me one whiskey and you’re ready to take me up to your room.”

Granted, there was the span of a few days in between the time John bought him a whiskey back at the Rhodes Parlour House and now, but maybe Arthur’s thoughts are a little too muddled currently to point out the specifics. 

John’s standing close enough that Arthur could just lean in and kiss him, and it’s definitely a very tempting thought to him right now. If Arthur’s being honest with himself, that same thought has occupied his mind since he saw John downstairs, with his smile a little lopsided. 

John’s still smiling now, and when he leans in, Arthur can feel the curve of John’s smile against his lips. 

The moment’s nearly everything it was all those nights ago, under the stars and with John’s mouth tasting of whiskey and tobacco. Except it’s more, and try as he might, that’s the only way Arthur can think to describe it. 

Arthur lets his hands come up to cradle John’s waist, ducking inside John’s jacket and fingers spanning across the leather of his vest. John’s hands settle on Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him in to close what’s left of the distance between them. 

The kiss is slow, a bit like the last one, and again, not really like Arthur had imagined it being. John handles so many things with impatience and hastiness, he’s very purposeful in his actions. Arthur could only assume that _this_ would be no different, and yet, John continues to surprise him. 

“Better here than in camp, ain’t no privacy there,” John’s muttering against Arthur’s lips when they come up for air, resuming their conversation. It takes a second for Arthur to catch up, to pull the remnants of their previous exchange out of his clouded thoughts. “Can’t go much of anywhere around here without coming across a Lemoyne Raider, either.”

“Yeah, me and Hosea had a bit of a run in with them earlier, trying to make use of that moonshine,” Arthur presses another light kiss against John’s lips, one that John nearly hums into. “Speaking of which, what’ve you and Javier got going on down at the Gray’s place?”

John shrugs slightly, perhaps sharing the same fear as Arthur, that this moment could be broken with a few sudden movements. “Supposed to be meeting up with the sheriff’s brother about some horses, I don’t know.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad you got all the bases covered then,” Arthur’s instinct to chide John in his lack of details kicks in instantly, to which John just rolls his eyes at. “wouldn’t wanna think you were going into this unprepared.”

“Give it a rest, alright,” Arthur’s amazed how John manages to sound only mildly frustrated. He sounds more amused than anything. “You can lay into me about it later.”

Arthur quickly decides that’s fair enough, and perhaps John leaning in to kiss him again helps to persuade him. 

This time, the kiss alludes more to John’s purposefulness, to which Arthur doesn’t mind in the slightest.

He wouldn’t call it a distraction, maybe more so an indulgence of how quickly John can take over his thoughts. Make it so that John is the only thing Arthur can think about right in this moment, making everything else seem so far away and insignificant. 

Not even the room that surrounds them, with it’s loud and brash decor and gold-accented everything, can intrude. 

The only thing that seems to bring Arthur back to earth, if only for a second, is the feeling of John’s hand enclosing around his own, guiding it down to the front of his pants.

And it’s enough to coax a muttered, “Jesus,” from Arthurs mouth, and he can feel John grinning again. Although Arthur can’t exactly see it, he knows John’s smile possesses a newly found smugness, undoubtedly. 

The invitation is clear, and Arthur can feel that John’s about as hard as he, himself surely is right now, so he doesn’t waste any further time. The two of them make quick work of their clothes: John shrugging out of his jacket, then prying Arthur’s off. Arthur sliding John’s belt out from the loops of his pants, then fumbling with the buttons of his pants. John’s vest and shirt go just as quickly.

John’s leading him again, without breaking much of the contact, and Arthur’s feet follow as John backs himself around to the side of the bed.

John sits back against the bed, and Arthur’s left standing in between his legs, their kisses still as frenzied. Arthur opens his eyes long enough to see John unbuttoning his union suit to give Arthur easier access, and maybe that might suffice if John’s pants were about as absent as the rest of his clothes. Instead, they just remain half shoved down on his hips, but it’s enough.

Arthur lays his palm against John’s bare stomach, feeling it swell and flatten with each heavy breath, letting his hand slide further down. John jerks his hips forward when Arthur’s got a proper grip around him, groaning into Arthur’s mouth. 

Arthur keeps a steady pace going, and when they break the kiss, Arthur lets his forehead rest against John’s, eyes locked on John’s face. 

John’s still got his eyes shut, brows furrowed like he’s concentrating on something. The occasional curse hissed through clenched teeth as Arthur quickens his pace. 

Maybe it’s the slight change in his field of vision when John ducks his head down to mouth along the line of Arthur’s jaw, but when Arthur’s glancing up again, he notices the floor mirror sitting in the corner of the room. 

Maybe he saw it when he came in, he isn’t sure, but he’s seeing it now: a few feet away from the coat rack, right beside the doors that lead out to the balcony. The angle isn’t perfect, but it’s positioned well enough that Arthur can see a portion of his reflection looking back at him from over John’s shoulder. 

Mostly, all he can really see is John’s back, still concealed by the fabric of his union suit. He can see where John is nearly doubled over on himself, and the slight movement of his head as he kisses down further along to Arthur’s neck. 

Arthur’s brain is static, mind swarmed with John’s whispered curses against his skin, and all he can think about is John and the quick little movements of his hips as he jerks up into Arthur’s hand. 

And the mirror, and his own gaze that he refuses to meet as he lifts his other hand up to pull the remaining fabric off of John’s shoulder, revealing a shred of bare skin in the reflection. Arthur keeps his gaze held there as he leans forward to mouth along John’s clavicle, leading up towards his shoulder, encouraging the fabric further down. 

***

It takes him a minute or two, but John eventually catches on.

They’ve scooted farther back on the bed, John flat on his back and Arthur leaning over him, still settled between John’s legs, thrusting into him. 

This seemed to go a bit similar to the kisses; John’s own impatience catching up with him eventually, his hips moving at an erratic pace in an attempt to speed up Arthur’s thrusts. Even during this, apparently, John will get that _look_ on his face, all stubborn and flinty. 

Arthur’s breathing hard through his nose, stabilizing himself with one hand planted against the mattress next to John’s shoulder, the other laid out smooth against John’s thigh. John’s saying something, or multiple somethings, things that sometimes sound like broken off whines of Arthur’s name, or gritted out curses. 

He’s in love with John, he knows that much to be true, so much so that it doesn’t seem fair - to experience a feeling this intense about a person, and to be realized at only one point in time. Something Arthur’s felt over and over before, all differing degrees of intensity. Something with an immense amount of power, yet fragile as glass. 

Arthur spares another glance up and at the mirror, first meeting his own gaze then quickly darting down to John’s figure underneath him. John’s tangled mess of dark hair, a hand clutching at Arthur’s shoulder, legs tucked around Arthur’s hips. 

A particular thrust sends John’s head back, near-dangling off the edge of the bed where they’ve maneuvered up too far, just enough that Arthur can see a glimpse of his expression. He sees John open his eyes, and their gazes meet through the reflection of the mirror. 

And John makes a sound, a light huff of breath that could resemble a chuckle, and his mouth is soft and slack. It makes Arthur want to kiss him again. 

So, he does.

***

“Tell me something,” Arthur says to the two twin pools of moonlight faltering in through the balcony doors. 

The oil lamps are still burning low, its glow casting a short range of light that still leaves the room dark. When Arthur glances over at John laying beside him in bed, he can only really make out the outline of him, and the orange tip of his cigarette balanced between his lips. 

“What?” John’s voice sounds scratchy and tired. A bit like it does in the mornings when he’s still half-asleep.

“That whole letter thing,” Arthur takes the cigarette when John passes it over to him, a small orange glow passing through the darkness as it changes hands. “did that come from me playin’ carrier pigeon for that Gray boy?”

“You said it was a _fine example of modern romance_ ,” John makes his voice go all low and deep when he quotes Arthur. 

It reminds him of the way some of the girls in camp (and even Uncle) have made impressions of him before: voice low, expression twisted to look all exaggeratedly mean and sulky. They don’t mean no harm in it, just as John doesn’t right now, and if anything Arthur gets a laugh out of it. 

“John,” Arthur can hear the amusement in his own voice, now. Partly from the impression and partly from John just being damn near oblivious to everything, sometimes. “I was bein’ sarcastic.”

“Oh,” John hesitates. “yeah, I know.” 

Then, “Well - it wasn’t much of a letter, anyway.”

“No, but,” Arthur sighs, tapping the ash off the cigarette before handing it back to John. “it’s the thought that counts.”

“Now you sound like Abigail.”

"Well, now, you gotta give me and her a little credit," Arthur teases, smiling at John’s profile. "bein' charming ain't exactly your speciality."

"Shut up."

"My point exactly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do not think??? there is a mirror in the room at the bastille saloon??? but I'm gonna pretend there is


End file.
